


Broken Things

by buffering



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angels, Apocalypse, Christian mythology???, Christianity, Demons, Demons are just fallen angels yall, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral God, Jealousy, Siblings, Trauma, dad issues, working through things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23935429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffering/pseuds/buffering
Summary: We say nothing to each other for a second, a day, a century, as we sit on the broken cliff of some distant place and watch Earth burn beneath us, ground cracked like parched lips.





	Broken Things

**Author's Note:**

> ...I know this might seem like it, but I wrote this before I even knew about Good Omens. They're similar(ish) in the sense that it's an angel and a demon with issues/tension between them and the end of the world is happening, but hopefully, that's the end of those similarities. 
> 
> Despite all the craziness happening in the world right now, I hope whoever reads this (and whoever doesn't, of course) is doing well and staying healthy.
> 
> Thanks for reading, sorry for formatting issues if any, and please enjoy :D

* * *

I don’t say anything as I approach one of my pure siblings, one who took the side of those insolent maggots wriggling and writhing in soil soaked with their poison. They don’t acknowledge my presence, don’t even flinch as I sit next to them. We’re close enough to feel each other’s aura, mine a radiating red, their’s an ocean blue. We say nothing to each other for a second, a day, a century, as we sit on the broken cliff of some distant place and watch Earth burn beneath us, ground cracked like parched lips.

“Vequaniel,” I say, not expecting any sort of response.

I’ve never been good with silence, never comfortable enough with it to let it sit for longer than necessary. Angels are content with anything, so Vequaniel shouldn’t be bothered by it (Father’s perfect little children, never able to do anything wrong). They say nothing, moon silver eyes reflecting the heavenly hellfire eating the earth, turning the sky a blood red choked by black smoke. There’s more quiet between us, a silence that cuts to the bone and soul, something that can’t be fixed between us.

“Why is this happening?” Vequaniel asks, soft and sad as baby’s-breath. Their eyes, all millions of them, are still gazing on the earth’s surface like it holds all the answers they need (I will never understand their sentiment towards humanity, vulgar miniscule bugs infesting beauty). I want to laugh at them, coat my words with whips of snark, but the broken thing deep within stops me from being too harsh.

“We knew this would happen. This really shouldn’t be a surprise to you.” I can’t help the wintery bite of my voice.

Really, it’s no wonder I fell. “I just...I didn’t imagine it would be like this.” They glance over to me before looking back at the red orange yellow flames. “It was so beautiful, Xerabal.”

The broken thing in me starts to tick tick tick like a clock, gears twisting and churning grotesquely (Sentiment, a quiet voice hisses). I look out at the burning planet, able to see the tiny cracks appearing along the core as fire spits up on the wasteland. I can’t see what Vequaniel saw, never know what they saw in humanity, but they are right: Earth was beautiful and rich and lush when it was new.

Father really outdid Themselves creating it, even if They ruined it with humanity, the one experiment They cared about (but not us, Their firstborn, barely noticed us as we tried to earn Their trust, Their attention, Their love). I go to reach for my pure sibling before I catch myself. I’ll burn them, leave blackened imprints like ashes on their form, and they’d leave feathery soft white dust on mine. Suddenly they grab onto me, still not looking at me. Of course they can see the war raging in my mind. Of course they’re the brave one, courage melted in their soul with honour and loyalty and love.

Nothing I say could really help Vequaniel; anything they want to hear would scorch my mouth, red hot lies like the flames encapsulating the earth below. I say nothing, because even if I’ve fallen and burned away my feathers I despise lying to my siblings. I didn’t want to leave them, abandon my birthplace (my home) but how could I stay when Father threw out Their most beloved, Their most beautiful, Their most wonderful? How could I stay when Father forgave the vermin for their specks of sins again and again, but throws out Their most beloved for such a thing? I couldn’t stay, live in such hypocrisy.

I say nothing as Vequanial leans into my form, or as hot wetness splashes on my dirtied wings, hissing on contact. They feel the agony I do, trapped in an eternal civil war. Except, they think they’ll have to destroy me because Father ordered them, ordered all my pure siblings, to destroy the fallen. The thought makes me sick. My eyes sizzle as wet streak out from them.

The bruised, broken, beaten thing within lets the angel touch me, lets me not stab Vequaniel. I can almost see it: holding them as their angelic essence pools out in wispy colourless rainbows around the blade jammed in their back, eyes turning pure white just like Father’s. But no. My broken soul would stop me with all it’s stupid pointless sentiment. I slightly tighten my hold on my sibling, who doesn’t outwardly respond.

We watch the world burn and collapse in on itself until there’s nothing left but a gaping empty space where it used to be.


End file.
